Endure
by SeekerAstria
Summary: It was a case like so many others. In retrospect, one would have thought it deserved some distinguishing feature. After all, this case would be his last. The events preceding 'Only the Dead'. TVverse, AU.


A/N – Started off as random speculation on a previous fic in an attempt to motivate myself, and ended up as a follow-up fic written to get the idea out of my head and practice writing about Harry. Not entirely convinced it worked...

Endure

There is a theory claimed by some philosophers that one is born only to die. That every minute that passes in our lives counts only as one step towards an inevitable demise. One irrefutable fact of life is death. It is a curious thought, one perhaps worthy of greater consideration, were it not for the fact that it is, frankly, thoroughly depressing. People exist and people die, yet people _live_ because they find a reason to do so. To endure is human nature.

No such thoughts had occurred to Harry Dresden that night, when he set out towards a warehouse in one of the city's less salubrious areas. But perhaps he'd known it subconsciously in a small thought never to be expressed that, at the end of all things, lies death. Certainly he had never thought he would live a long life. In his line of work, the high risk of injury and death was one he had long ago accepted as fact. It paid to be paranoid, especially if there was a chance someone – or something – really _was_ out to get you. On occasion, death could seem like the preferable option. Demons, vampires, the odd psychotic fool with more power than sense; it all added up to one dangerous lifestyle for one desperate or otherwise determined enough to take it on. No wizard lasted long if they were naïve. Years of experience and some harsh lessons had ensured that Harry Dresden was no fool.

The case had begun as many had done; a phone-call from Murphy, asking Harry to investigate an unusual set of murders. The first indication to supernatural goings on was the fact that several victims had been killed in a violent manner which Harry, with one look at the photographs, had put down to Black magic. No weapon could cause such injuries to a body and leave so little blood behind, gaping wounds apparently cauterized. The odd thing was that all these deaths had occurred at otherwise 'normal' crimes. Security guards killed at bank robberies, employees at all-night stores. All normal people killed in uncanny ways with little consistency in their injuries. It had left Chicago P.D. with a rising body-count and Harry with, rather more positively even under the circumstances, an increasing bill for his services.

Of all the reasons he had heard over the years for people meddling in magic, it always seemed to come down to the simplest of facts; life and death. The burning desire for one, and fervent terror of the other had driven many of the cases Harry had encountered over the years. But he could never quite accept that little dual equation, not completely. To do so would be, he felt, to cheapen the acts these people committed. True, he would be the first to admit that some who went to the Black did so out of often understandable reasons; the death of a loved one or a need for vengeance. Everyone finds meaning, some in more destructive ways than others. Yet the fact remained that people who crossed that line, between the white and black, life and death, did so at their peril. No magic was used without sacrifice, and Harry knew that he made some of his own every time he apprehended someone for doing what he too was guilty of.

All in all, it had taken a combined effort for Harry to reach where he was now, walking between two warehouses to reach his target; the smallest one at the end of the row. The killers had been identified as two local criminals, known as petty thieves and general thugs who had ended up in over their heads when the elder, a Mark Malone, had happened upon an old magical artefact intended to absorb magical power. Bob had confirmed the item to be an "inferior" version of his own Doom Box, and had cautioned – repeatedly – that if improperly handled the device could have dreadful consequences. Certain that four such results were now residents of the city morgue, Harry had come prepared.

Staff at his side, harmless-looking as ever, Harry reached the warehouse where, if his sources were correct, the Malones had made their hideout. How original of them, to set up in dark warehouse in a run-down corner of the city. Hopefully they showed as much imagination when it came to magic. The sooner this was over, the better. Sidling in through a partly open side-door, Harry stayed close to the wall and looked around. Boxes were stacked around and above him; a convenient cover.

Harry crept up to where the lines of boxes ended and opened out onto the wide, empty space of the warehouse floor. So far, no-one was else around. Loosening his grasp on his staff, Harry drew a breath in relief. The air was damp and cool as Harry advanced through the warehouse, checking every corner, hardly daring to make a sound in case he attracted the attention of the ones he had come to find.

It was then that he noticed the light further up the wall. A shout came from behind, followed by a gunshot which ricocheted off the wall. Harry threw himself to the ground. Cursing inwardly, Harry twisted around until he could see the gunman. He stood alone, dim light revealing dark clothing and a shadowed face, mouth twisted into a smile. No sign of some dangerous magical artefact.

Whatever the object was capable of, Harry wasn't about to wait around to find out, he raised his staff. He did so too late. Something hit him, hard, on the back of the head and he was dimly aware of the bracelet being tugged from his wrist.

"Stops bullets, huh?" He could hear one of the men say to his brother, whilst his own mind wandered _Thieves_, _that's all they were, thieves using the Black to break into banks, rob liquor stores. No point in killing. Murph's going to be _so _mad at me for messing up… Give me my mom's bracelet back, you sonofa-_

His musings were broken by the sound of a siren outside. The police. The gunshots must have been heard. Apparently the brothers Malone were neither imaginative nor smart. The pair backed away, looking for the nearest exist, seeming not to notice as Harry got to his feet. Perhaps that was his first mistake, concussed and bleeding, to try and move. Harry swayed as he stood, reaching for the wall to support himself. And that was the mistake, for seeing this, Malone panicked.

Harry did not hear the gunshot and, at least at first, did not feel its effect. It was such a small thing, a little decision made between life and death. One man panicked, and the consequences were fatal. Between life and death, survival and capture, the choice was all too simple. There is a theory that one is born only to die. Choice and chance play a part in both. Some would call it fate when really all that is certain is that nothing endures.

The End


End file.
